


Three Days in the Tomb

by cakeisnotpie



Series: Variations on a Death [3]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Barney's a good brother, Coma, Dealing With Guilt, Dreams and Nightmares, Hope, I Made Myself Cry, Jesus was in the tomb for three days, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Pietro's a good brother, Purgatory, Survivor Guilt, and count hope, get-together, life after death, maybe if you squint, maybe?? - Freeform, oh death where is thy sting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:22:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22759213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cakeisnotpie/pseuds/cakeisnotpie
Summary: In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself within a dark wood where the straight way was lost -- Dante AlighieriThird in the variations on mortality series.Clint's lost and finds his way with some help from unexpected faces ... well, maybe all but one.Not a fix-it, but, like Pandora's Box, there may be a little hope left in the bottom when all the misery's been released.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Series: Variations on a Death [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1571656
Comments: 29
Kudos: 82





	Three Days in the Tomb

**Author's Note:**

> Third in my variation on mortality series. 
> 
> This story is highly influenced by Dante's Purgatorio and medieval dream visions like The Book of the Duchess. The shifts in setting and tone are part of the form. 
> 
> As usual, I play loose and fast with the MCU canon. Clint's not married, but Ultron and Winter Soldier happened. 
> 
> I realize I've written from Clint's POV for these first stories; #4 is going to be from Phil's and I have more planned that retells through his eyes.

_When the dark wood fell before me_

_And all the paths were overgrown_

_When the priests of pride say there is no other way_

_I tilled the sorrows of stone_

_I did not believe because I could not see_

_Though you came to me in the night_

_When the dawn seemed forever lost_

_You showed me your love in the light of the stars_

_Cast your eyes on the ocean_

_Cast your soul to the sea_

_When the dark night seems endless_

_Please remember me_

_Dante’s Prayer_

“On your six!” Sam shouted, tucking his wings and diving out of the way. 

Clint rolled to his left, fired two arrows, and ducked as the robot plummeted, slamming into the hot tar of the roof where he’d just been standing. His ears picked up the whine of more closing in on his position. 

“Gotta relocate.” 

He was already in motion as he said the words. Attaching the grappling hook, he sprinted to the edge as laser blasts dogged his heels. No hesitation, he leaped, toes pushing off as he twisted and aimed. Air rushed by his ears, cutting off any reply; for a heartbeat, he was suspended in mid-air then gravity kicked in, his stomach dropped, and he let the arrow fly. The familiar vibration ran through his arms as the head buried itself in the side of the building, and he braced for the jerk that came with the abrupt stop, rolling with the jolt and swinging in the direction of a balcony on a nearby high rise. 

“... more on the … sharpening their focus … away from the …” 

A robot zipped by, metal chassis brushing his outstretched arm. Another clipped his shoulder then they swarmed him, close, too close to turn or to … the line went lax as the first laser cut a sharp trail of pain across his chest then he was falling, arms pinwheeling, bouncing off one robot then careening into another. More burns, blood flying as the concentrated light drove through his forearm. He pulled his knees into his chest, tried to evade but there was no time. Searing heat on his chest, down his leg, across his cheek, then agony exploded as his hand and his foot hit something hard. His bones jarred in their sockets as he …

…

_“... going to make it! Thor, where are …”_

…

_“... on, you hear me? You’ve got to stay with …”_

…

_“... care how, just make it happen, damn it. No way we’re going to lose …”_

...

… blinked once then opened his eyes. Above, the sky was streaked with tendrils of red, rays breaking the Eastern horizon and chasing the darkness of night to the West. Underneath him, smooth wooden planks rocked gently. In the quiet, the lapping of water was the only other sound besides his own breathing. 

No voices in his ear.

No robots. 

No battle.

No pain.

No blood splattered on the pavement.

He held out his arms, turned them over, flexed his fingers, looked for bruises or wounds or scars, but the skin from the cuffs of his purple t-shirt down to this tanned hands was smooth and clear. The puckered entry and exit of Duquesne’s arrow … gone. The long knife slash from Budapest … gone. The crooked bend in his left pinkie that a bully broke at the orphanage … gone. 

He sat up too quickly; the canoe yawed to the left and he grabbed the sides, righting it. In the distance was a shoreline of rocky banks and tall trees that circled around the edge of the moderately sized lake. Mountains were even further away, jutting up into the sky, rising sun inching up their sides and jumping darker valleys. A breeze -- cool with a hint of rain -- ruffled his hair. He ran a hand, pushing it away from his face, the length an odd feeling; he’d just gotten cut yesterday. Glancing down, he took in the snug fit of his favorite black jeans, worn at the knees and starting to unravel at the ankles, and his boots of weathered leather. Certainly not what he’d been wearing in the middle of a battle, his tac suit missing along with his weapons and any comm devices. 

“Okay, option one.” He eased up onto his knees, catching his balance, then lifted up to sit on the narrow bench. “I’m in a coma so I can have time to heal. They’ve plugged me into the good drugs, and I’m dreaming.” 

He cast about, found an oar tucked neatly into the ribbing, and began paddling. 

“Hopefully, it’s a good kind of dream, one with sunshine and quiet days fishing and some time off, vacation vibe going on.” 

Without a clear destination, he struck out, thinking of the Adirondacks or Bitterroot, keeping an eye out for an easy access point to the land. 

“But knowing my luck, it’s probably going to turn bad any second. Nightmare level shit; I’ve got a ton of memories to draw on. I knew I shouldn’t have watched all those zombie movies with Thor.” 

The sun lifted further above the horizon; Clint could make out more details as he stroked the water. 

“Of course, that’s better than what’s behind door number two.” 

His eyes flicked down as the paddle broke the surface, scooped down, then rose up, water drops trailing in its wake. Shadows of movement stirred the darker depths and he really didn’t want to dwell on what might be down there. 

“I mean, no ferryman to pay, but the symbolism’s pretty damn obvious; those lasers did a number on me and I hit the ground pretty hard. What are the odds I survived?” 

Something jutted away from the shore, darker than the rocks; he angled the canoe that way. 

“Either way, Nat’s going to be pissed that I jumped off another building. They’ll have to call her, tell her while she’s on that undercover mission; I pity the messenger of that bit of news. And S.H.I.E.L.D. psych’s going to be even more sure I’m a danger to myself … like there wasn’t a swarm of those blasted bots firing at me and I decided to go flying on my own.” 

The angry flare in his gut that knotted up every time Clint thought about the psych evals and team meetings didn’t come. Two years after Loki and the doubts were still there, the worry he wasn’t in control of his own mind. Nothing he did mitigated the second looks and hesitations. Not even on his worse days of flashbacks and dark depressions, suicide had never been an option. 

A dock separated itself as he drew closer, some sunken pylons and a single walkway; a path disappeared into the woods after some steps built with hewn stones. 

“Yeah, yeah, I get it.” He sighed and put more effort into his strokes. “Follow the trail to what’s next. Metaphor or now, I understand the concept.” 

The temperature warmed as he paddled; he should have been sweating by the time he pulled up to the dock, the sun overhead at its zenith, but he didn’t feel like he’d exerted himself at all. Climbing out of the canoe, he made sure to leave the oar in place, not because he thought he’d need it again, but for the next poor schlub, just in case. This might be nothing more than a dream, but he wasn’t taking the chance. 

Behind him, the lake lay quiet, occasional white caps from the gentle wind; before him, the land beckoned, and he began walking. 

Hours passed if the sun’s shifting inexorably to the West was still a measure; he followed what was little more than a deer path, winding through trees and undergrowth. The ground began to rise as he neared the foothills. A chill set in as shadows lengthened. Tell-tale signs of forest denizens were few and far between, only the flapping of wings, shifting brush, and the disappearing tail of a rat snake. The quiet began to grate on Clint’s already anxious brain, too many unanswered questions to keep inside. 

“Okay, options. Magic. It’s not like I haven’t seen wormholes into other universes before. Mental manipulation. Xavier could do this, some other mutants. Aliens. Yeah, this could be _Menagerie_ level shit, a zoo enclosure. All that ‘s missing is a green-skinned girl. Joke would be on them, though, considering.” 

He skirted around a rather prickly bush. 

“Or maybe it’s one of those survival things, scoop up people about to die and zap ‘em somewhere else, leave them to find for themselves. Probably cameras everywhere, recording this.” Looking up at the nearest tree, he squinted at a raised bole. “Hi there, studio audience! Welcome to the Hawkeye show! Watch me talk to myself and eventually go crazy in real-time!”

No answer, but he really didn’t expect any. He was hell and gone from civilization, assuming he wasn’t the only human being in this place. Just him and trees and … 

Smoke spiraling up into the sky, framed between boughs. 

He caught a low hanging limb, swung up and began to climb, switching over to a taller oak, then another, until he was above the canopy, swaying on the thin topmost branches. There, in the distance, the distinct line of greyish smoke, curling up then bending as the wind took it. On a rise of elevation, he could see a stone chimney and flash of hewn logs. Scrambling down, he put the descending sun over his left shoulder and left the path, feet stepping onto fragrant pine needles as he moved with renewed vigor. 

“Don’t stray, Little Red,” he muttered as he pushed aside a rhododendron. “Yeah, the big bad wolf can bite me.”

The shadows threatened to overtake the last light by the time he came to the porch of the little log cabin. Three steps up to a square made of old planks, a simple door between two windows. Exactly like one of those rentals that hunters and fishermen used for occasional trips, one level and not big enough for more than one room. A lantern’s glow flickered through the bubbled panes of glass, casting fractals on the ground in the growing twilight. He heard movement, feet on squeaky boards, then the door opened and Clint jumped back in recognition of the man standing there. 

“Fuck, Barton. Didn’t think I’d see you so soon.” Jasper Sitwell stepped aside, eyes glancing out in the creeping darkness. “Get inside; won’t be safe out there much longer.” 

Half in shock and half relieved to find another person in this place, Clint stumbled in far enough for Jasper to swing the door shut and lock it behind him. He’d been right in his estimation of the space inside; it was just a square with a stone hearth, a bed covered in a threadbare quilt, what passed for a kitchenette, and a walled-off corner that was probably the bath. A fire burned but its warmth seemed far away. 

“Sit down before you fall down.” Jasper pointed to one of two chairs. “It’ll hit you soon; the first days are the worst. Takes time to adjust to the rhythm.” 

“You’re dead.” Clint stood rooted to the spot as lethargy tingled in his toes and slid towards his heels. “The Winter Soldier killed you; tossed you out of a car.” 

“And in front of an 18-wheeler.” Jasper nudged him in the direction he wanted him to go. “Damn nasty way to go; sometimes I can still feel my bones breaking. Part of the price. ” 

“This is hell.” Up to his knees and climbing, exhaustion won and he sagged down onto the seat. “It’s door number two after all. I’m dead and this is it.” 

“Not hell, not yet. Got to pass through to get where you’re going,” Jasper corrected. “Think of me as a travel plaza on the turnpike. First stop for a lot of folks, faces I knew or worked with. Lets me keep my ear out to what’s going on out there. Stark built a megalomaniac robot? Have to say that’s not a big surprise. Kind of disappointed Pierce’s plan failed so spectacularly, but, hey, doesn’t matter now.” 

“You’re HYDRA.” Clint breathed deep and tried to push back the urge to close his eyes. “Were HYDRA. All that time you were lying to us..” 

“Yeah, bad choice on my part, I’ll give you that.” Jasper shrugged. “That’s why I’m stuck here; can’t move on until I deal with my betrayal of friends, A twisted sense of humor to make me face you all again.” 

“Well, don’t look for forgiveness here; too many good people died because of HYDRA, are still dying because of …” Clint yawned wide enough to pop his jaw. “What’s wrong with me?” 

“You blew right past the first stop and showed up here in one day, you moron, so, yeah, you’re going to crash. Unlimited energy during the day gets paid back at night,” he said. “At least you made it; this isn’t the kind of place you wander around in at night. Gets real scary out there once the sun is down.” 

Clint’s head grew heavy and his eyelids slid closed. “Where the fuck am I?” 

“Purgatory, Clint,” Jasper said, his voice fading as Clint fell asleep. “Turns out, Dante was right.” 

…

_“... please, don’t, I have a family …”_

…

_“... take the shot, damn it! Barton, do you hear me? Take the …”_

…

_“... what you did, or what you were. If you go out there, you fight, and you fight to kill ...”_

...

He woke, the hard ground beneath his legs, bole of a tree supporting his back. Pine needles hung on the branches that protected him, water steadily falling past his feet, digging little holes in the soft ground. Grey skies lightning, morning hidden behind the low hanging clouds. He pulled his jacket closer, huddling for warmth, then crawled out into the decidedly different forest. He was drenched in seconds after he stood, cold rivulets ran under his henley’s collar, soaking the cotton and chilling his skin. 

There was no hint of direction to go, no path, no cabin, no Jasper Sitwell. Clint faced the truth that, wherever he was, the rules of logic and science didn’t apply. He let out a long breath and started moving for no other reason except to generate warmth. He picked uphill because he liked to be high and rising always seemed like progress. 

So he plowed through the underbrush until he was wet through his jeans and past the point of caring about the rain. The clay earth grew muddy; his foot slipped and he almost fell, grabbing a limb to stay upright. A perfectly miserable day, but Clint had suffered through worse than this without giving up; he saw no reason to stop now that he was probably dead. Going was better than standing still. 

With no sun overhead, the endless slog of one foot in front of the other became monotony, his body on autopilot and his brain free to roam. He dredged up what he remembered about Dante and it wasn’t much. Nine levels, beautiful Beatrice, the hell of being boiled alive. No, that last one was from _Big Trouble in Little China_. Clint had some vague concepts of people dragging heavy weights, being blown about by the wind, and lying on burning sand, punishments for their sins. 

Purgatory, he remembered the nuns at the orphanage saying, was Hell’s waiting room where bad little boys who didn’t follow the rules were stuck in corners and made to write “I will not shoot spitballs during music class” a hundred times. If they prayed hard enough, repented of their sins, they could go to heaven, or so Sister Mary Stephen said. Clint hadn’t bought it then and certainly didn’t now.

Praying was out of the question; Clint didn’t believe in any God who’d want him for a follower. Being taken by that self-styled bastard who called himself a god didn’t change Clint’s mind. The Holocaust and Project Insight and 911 and Sokovia were pretty much the nail in the coffin; it was people and their fucked up psyches that caused evil in the world. If prayer to a divine being was the answer, Clint might as well get used to this place ‘cause he wasn’t going anywhere. 

But wandering aimlessly didn’t sit well with him. The place might not be Christian, but Jasper had hinted there was more than randomness. Sitwell was … had been? … an avowed atheist thanks to a devoutly religious mother with a penchant for taking thin branches and switching her son’s legs for all kinds of imagined slights. Plus, Clint was pretty sure planning to kill millions of innocents to gain control of the world would send someone straight to a Dantean level without the option of any Hail Marys, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. So not Christian then. 

“You gonna ignore me or what, you jumped up little shit?” 

Clint spun, going for the absent bow and non-existent quiver, empty hands aimed at Jacques Duquesne’s head. 

“I see your situational awareness is still crap.” His very dead ex-mentor was leaning against a tree and wearing his old circus costume, faded red and blue out-of-place in the forest. His skin was pale, marred by dark splotches; his eyes watery and almost silver. “Had plenty of time to shoot you if I could.” 

A cold breeze kicked up and Clint shivered, droplets turning to ice on his exposed skin. 

“Don’t think it’ll take,” Clint said. “So you can crawl back to hell, motherfucker.” 

A deep chuckle and Duquesne walked towards him; Clint refused to flinch or give ground. 

“Oh, you have no idea what’s out there, the kinds of nightmares this place can conjure.” He grinned. “So much blood and pain and I could sit back and watch.”

“Still the same violent S.O.B., eh?” Clint deliberately turned his back on the shadow of the man he’d killed and went back to walking. “Pretty sure you have to repent to get out of purgatory, Jacques. Is that why you’re still hanging around?” 

Two steps behind, Duquesne growled in his throat; the hairs rose on Clint’s neck, but he didn’t look back. 

“You think you’ve got this figured out? You don’t know jackshit, Barton. Ain’t nothing off-limits, no place to hide.” 

A frigid touch on his hand, dried blood under Jacques fingernails as they trailed along, and the memory slammed into Clint so fast he ...

… 

…. _tasted blood on his lip as his teeth bit deep. He swallowed the cry that rose in his throat when the pain exploded, sharp knife tip pierced the thin skin of his neck._

_“World don’t need a whiny little punk like you,” Duquesne whispered in his ear. “Doing Barney a favor getting rid of your righteous bullshit; ain’t worth nothing but an occasional suck and you’re even bad at that.”_

_A tear leaked from the corner of his eye, rolling down his cheek; he struggled against the weight holding him down but he was too small, too weak. He_...

…

… almost fell backward, but he caught his balance and shoved Duquesne away. 

“Good times, eh? You remember that night, the job in Florida when we …” 

“I remember every damn one of my sins,” Clint declared. “Names and dates and faces. Even the assholes like you who deserved it. I’ve come to peace with my past. You, on the other hand, obviously haven’t.”

“Nice words, but I know you. You’re just like me” Duquesne stepped back. “Leopards never change their spots and your soul is black all over, boy. I’ll be seeing you soon.” 

“Not if I see you first,” Clint replied, unfazed when Duquesne simply faded away.

Was anything real here? Clint seriously doubted it. So he pressed on for lack of anything better to do.

The song rose unbidden in his mind and he was singing before he realized the sounds were coming out of his mouth. 

“There’s no earthly way of knowing which direction we are going.” 

The music flowed once he started. 

“I have spoken with the tongue of angels. I have held the hand of a devil. It was warm in the night. I was cold as a stone, but I still haven't found what I'm looking for.”

“Think about how many times I have fallen. Spirits are using me, larger voices callin'. What heaven brought you and me cannot be forgotten.”

“Into the woods and down the dell, the path is straight, I know it well. Into the woods and who can tell what's waiting on the journey?”

“Masquerading as a man with a reason. my charade is the event of the season, and if I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don't know.” 

The light began to fade and the shadows took on shapes that flickered in the corner of Clint’s eye. Grey roiled, shifted, reached out, and slashed, cutting through Clint’s jacket. He dodged a second strike as another came from behind, dark talons sinking into his shoulder. Spinning to the right, he ducked, but tendrils grew teeth and became gaping maws that slathered and snapped, biting into his calf and ripping flesh. He was surrounded, no way out. 

“Watch your head.” 

Arms caught him then the world was zipping past, a hand holding his neck and pressing him close. Howls from behind, growls from the sides, the pursuit was almost as swift but not quite. Along a ridge then into a valley with a small town. Darting into a stone house, the door slamming behind them, Clint found himself in a ladderback chair in front of a small fire, a silver-haired man standing next to him. 

“Never saw me coming, did you?” Pietro Maximoff grinned. “You need to be faster, Barton. They pick off the slow ones.” 

The room was cozy; through a doorway, he could see the corner of a bed and through another, the edge of a white porcelain sink.

“What are they?’ Clint hissed as he shifted, his wounds dripping blood on the floor. 

Pietro ran water in a bowl and picked up a cloth from the small countertop. “My mother warned us about baubau, how they come in the night to spirit children away. Monsters made of shadows only turned away by warded walls.” 

“The long dark night of the soul.” Clint shrugged out of his jacket, ignoring the sharp pull and burning pain from his back and the tell-tale tingle in his toes.. “Let me guess, can’t go around it, can’t go over it, can’t go under it, gotta go through it.” 

“That’s about it. Further in and further up.”

Pietro sat on the floor, crossed his legs and began cleaning the wound on Clint’s leg. Staring at the top of the kid’s head, Clint felt the guilty pull of a life sacrificed for his. 

“So, Sitwell and the Swordsman are stuck here as some sort of punishment, but what about you? Why are you hanging around?” 

Pietro didn’t answer for a few heartbeats then he spoke quietly.

“Sometimes I can sense her. First, it was sadness then frustration and anger. Lately, there’s something else. I want her to have a full-life, a happy life.” 

“She’s an Avenger now,” Clint told him. “Along with Sam and Rhodey. She trains with Natasha and has really come into her powers.” 

“She is the strongest of all, isn’t she? I knew she would be.” He beamed with pride at his sister’s accomplishments. “But I know her; she is in love.” 

“With Vision.” Clint saw the question in Pietro’s eyes. “Yeah, an odd couple, but they’re working on it.” 

“Stark’s robot?” 

“It’s complicated, I’ll give you that.” The numbness was at Clint’s knees, slower than before, but climbing nonetheless. “You’re waiting on her, aren’t you?”

“I promised to always take care of her; I won’t go on without her.”

As Pietro took Clint’s arm to work on the slashes there, Clint saw black veins running under his pale skin, spreading down towards his hand. 

“You’re becoming like them,” he said. “That’s what those things are, the ones who didn’t make it or refused to go on.” 

Jerking his arm back, Pietro said, “There are so many, children and the elderly, confused and alone. So many the Avengers couldn’t save, who die at the hands of Ultron and the others. Someone has to help them.” 

Clint tried to lift his hand but the exhaustion was already in his chest. “Come with me in the morning. You’ve got to go on; Wanda would want you to.” 

“What if we miss each other?” He was so young; Clint had forgotten. “What if she goes somewhere else?” 

“You honestly believe she won’t move heaven and earth to find you? She’s looking for you right now, contacting mediums and magicians and badgering Tony to build something. It’s inevitable, gonna happen; you’re stuck with her for eternity.” Clint smiled then his lips went lax as the wave of sleepiness crested. 

“You’re right.” Pietro stood. “You should do the same. Let the guilt go, Clint or you’ll never …”

…

_“... talk to me like that, you little shit. Shut your goddamn mouth or you know …”_

…

_“... what happens when you miss. Now get your ass up there, tell us if the cops show, and ... “_

…

_“... what did the Tesseract show you, Agent Barton?”_

…

He woke with a start, sitting up and scattering the snow that covered his body. A blizzard circled around him, leaving a carpet on the ground and trees. Heart pounding in his chest, he rolled up, his fight-or-flight screaming for him to go. With a shiver, he started walking … further in and further up … a thrum of danger reverberating in his skull. Goosebumps rose on his bare arms, the thin flexible kevlar of his tac suit holding the cold and turning to ice against his skin. Water leaked into his boots, soaking his socks and numbing his toes. 

The first one appeared not long after he turned the first bend. An arrow sunk in his chest, dried blood on his hands, a security guard who started his rounds too early. Then a two-bit thug who’d tried to strong-arm Clint. A CPA who had discovered discrepancies in the wrong person’s books. A woman who’d spent the night in the wrong bed. A line of assassinated drug lords. A family, burned to death when their car was sideswiped by a fleeing target. 

Standing. 

Watching. 

The phantoms grew closer and Clint picked up the pace, glancing over his neck when the prickles of unease grew too sharp. His first S.H.I.E.L.D. kill, a scientist working with A.I.M. to create a biological weapon. The first agent he lost on a mission who bled out in his arms because Clint didn’t get there fast enough. 

So many souls that weighed on his conscience. 

As he passed each one, he saw the pattern, knew what was coming before he topped the rise. The orphans from Budapest, clustered together, haunted eyes staring in accusation. Why didn’t you save us? How could you let this happen? One reached out and fingers brushed his arm and left streaks that burned like fire. 

“I’m sorry, we tried.” Tears spilled from the corner of his eyes and tracked ice down his cheeks. “I’m so sorry.”

“Always were a soft-touch; I see that hasn’t changed.” 

His brother stepped into his path. Three bullet holes marked Barney’s chest, a triangle over his heart. Black veins radiated up his neck and across one side of his face; faded brown eyes stared at Clint. 

“And you’re still an asshole.” Clint tried to walk around Barney, but the orphans blocked the left and others filled in on the right. He didn’t need to see to know they were coming up behind him. “I thought you went legit in the end, working for the C.I.A. undercover. That’s what they told me.” 

“Switching sides to save my own skin doesn’t count for much, not after all the shit I did.” He tilted his head just like their father always did. “But you. A superhero? Seriously, baby bro? You save people; I’m proud of you.” 

Static built in the air as the specters grew closer. Clint’s breath froze in his throat, the temperature dropping even further. 

“Barn, I … .” He pushed his body, made his muscles work so he could move forward. “... that means a lot, really, but I’ve got to go. I can’t …” 

“I know.” Barney gave him a tremulous smile. “You’re gonna make it; you were the best of us. Now, RUN.” 

His brother swung to the left, plowing through the snowy apparitions. They burst into ashen tendrils that clung to Barney’s arms and legs, searing deep marks that smoked and glowed. Clint dashed through the opening Barney created and ran. Sounds of pursuit followed, but he focused on staying upright and refused to look back. More and more ghosts appeared as he sprinted for the highest point, zig-zagging to avoid their reach, mostly succeeding but earning more slashes and burns when he didn’t. 

How long he ran, he couldn’t tell, but he knew night was coming. Then he saw them, the agents he’d killed under Loki’s thrall … Sendai, Abrams, Mwangi, and the others ... and the rock hard certainty settled in his chest. One more person, the one he cared about the most. 

The ghosts trapped him in a ravine with rocky walls; he might have been able to climb out but his fingers were frostbitten and wet with blood. Duquesne was grinning, the orphans crying, the criminals leering. S.H.I.E.L.D. agents side-by-side with HYDRA. The ones Clint had seen in his crosshairs stood next to the accidents, the collateral damage, those he might as well have killed. Fingers grabbed, cut, burned where they touched; he screamed as he fell, his hand slamming hard enough to feel the bones shatter. Darkness swarmed around him, ripping at his body, tearing sinews and …

…

_“I’d like to offer you a job.”_

…

_“Our call sign is Strike Team Delta.”_

…

_“I need eyes in the sky.”_

…

  
  


… the pain was everywhere. A sharp stab when he tried to breathe, a wave of nausea when he tried to turn his head, vertigo when he opened his eyes. 

“You’re safe.” A cool cloth brushed along Clint’s temple. “Lie still if you can.” 

“Phil.” Clint’s voice broke on the name; he squinted and made out a silhouette in the lamp’s glow. The figure sharpened and came into focus; the crinkles at the corner of his eyes deepened as he smiled. 

“I’d ask for a report, but I'm pretty sure I know how you got here. Jumped off a building or ran into a firefight?” 

“In my defense.” Clint coughed up blood and the spasm was like a dozen razor blades cutting his chest. “The damn robots cut my line or I would have been fine.” 

“Robots. Not Stark creations? He generally learns after the first time.” Phil’s fingers carded through Clint’s hair as he nestled Clint’s head in his lap. “Was it Thanos? I’m hearing rumblings he was behind Loki and the Chitauri and he’s turned his attention towards Earth; going to need all the Avengers to deal with him.”

“Never heard of him,” Phil’s gentle touch helped Clint push back the agony of his wounds. “This was Victor Von Doom. King of Latveria and a megalomaniac. Got himself and Reed Richards and the Storms and another guy exposed to cosmic radiation. He turned crazy; they went superheroes. We haven’t had any aliens since the Little Shit played with my head and stabbed you in the back.” 

“That wasn’t your fault.” Phil’s voice was solace, his warmth staving off the cold. “It was mine; I underestimated Loki because I was compromised.” 

“What?” A tremor filtered through Clint’s body when he tried to tilt his head up to see better. “You were …” 

“This place puts everything in perspective. What was important, what wasn’t,” Phil gave a little chuckle. “My biggest regret is not telling you how I felt, taking the risk to have a relationship with you. When Loki took you, all that mattered was getting you back; I went after Loki because I was afraid of losing you.”

“Losing me?” Pain wracked his bones, shooting up his nervous system, and rattling his teeth. 

“Once I arrived here, I worried you’d be right behind me; I stayed at the first way stop until I heard Natasha had gotten you back. Then Jasper came and …” Phil hesitated. “I didn’t know about HYDRA, about him and Pierce and so many others.” 

“No one knew …” Clint clenched his teeth as another wave hit. “You … need to … move … on. It’s not … don’t want you to ...” 

“You’re going to be okay,” Phil promised. “We both are. I’m ready to go now.”

“Phil.” Blackness snuck up to the edge of his vision. “If you’d asked …” He couldn’t breathe, could barely think “... I would have … said yes.” 

“I’ll hold you to that,” Phil whispered. “Find me, Clint. I’ll be watching for you.” 

He went under just after the lightest brush of lips touched his. 

…

… _beep_ …

…

… _beep, beep_ …

…

… _beep_ …

…

“Phil?” 

Clint was floating, his body only a faint echo. 

“He’s waking up.” 

He cracked his eyelids and blinked a few times. 

“Clint? We need you to try not to move, okay? You’re in traction.”

Steve’s face filled his line of sight, Sam just behind him. 

“Dude, you gave us a real scare”.

“... option … one … It was … option one.” Clint coughed and stitches pulled. “Dreaming, not dead.” 

“It was close, but you can thank Wanda for that,” Steve said. “She caught you before you hit the ground.”

“Hand? Foot?” The morphine pump beeped, the drug masking the pain.

“A balcony railing. Gave me a heart attack when you slammed into it; thought I had to tell Natasha we lost you, and my life flashed before my eyes,” Sam answered.

“Helen’s going to use her new bone grafting technique,” Steve added. “Once you’re up for it.” 

“Which means he needs rest.” Wanda came into the room. “Tony’s already working on a wheelchair for Clint’s convalescence; I think he’s adding rockets.” 

“Of course he is.” Steve sighed; he nudged Sam’s shoulder. “Let’s go.” 

“Sure thing.” Sam glanced back at Clint. “A rocket chair sounds cool though.” 

Wanda waited until they were gone then came to the side of the bed. 

“While you were unconscious, you were … not here.” She rested her fingertips on the back of his uninjured hand. “I thought I felt …”

“I saw him.” 

Her eyes widened. “Was he …” 

“He wanted to stay close, said he promised not to leave you.”

“The idiot. He knows not to linger in the shadow world.” 

“I told him you’d kick his ass if he didn’t move on,” Clint offered. “And that you’d always know where he is.” 

“I will find him.” She closed her eyes and listened for a moment then smiled. “You found something too.” 

“Things have a different perspective there,” Clint said. “Can you …”

A red glow surrounded her hand. “I see … sun, sand, the ocean. It’s warm, there’s a cold drink, and he’s ... waiting.” 

For a second, Clint felt the faint press of Phil’s lips. 

“Yes. Yes, he is.” 

  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> The songs Clint sings are:  
> "The Wonderous Boat Ride" from Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory"  
> "Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For" by U2  
> "Southern Cross" by Crosby, Stills, and Nash  
> "Into the Woods" by Stephen Sondheim  
> "Carry on My Wayward Son" by Kansas
> 
> I originally thought to end this without the scene with Wanda, to leave Clint wondering if it was real or a dream, but my muse insisted there be a glimmer of hope. Maybe my dark mood is lifting ...


End file.
